


Greater Mysteries

by Alpherae



Series: Stacking the Deck [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Minor AU, Skyrim Main Quest, Tarot Prompts, episodic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-20 14:35:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13719759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alpherae/pseuds/Alpherae
Summary: In which a bunch of ordinary mortals find out that they are not so ordinary (and potentially not so mortal).





	1. The Fool

**Author's Note:**

> I'm using tarot cards as prompts, specifically the Steampunk Tarot created by Barbara Moore and Aly Fell. In this fic, it's the Major Arcana.
> 
> Minor AU: most events will occur as in canon, with tweaks due to the existence of the Dovahkinne, plural, and the completion of many major quest lines before Alduin shows up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment before the first step is taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for one character deliberately making another uncomfortable.

“Will you stop wriggling?” Ralof paused to shift his grip on the Argonian woman, and began walking again along the cobbled road. “Honestly, I don't know how you folk manage with your legs like that. How do you balance?”

Dreams-Of-Wings pulled herself up against his shoulder again, and wedged a toe behind his belt. “If the softskin is paying attention, he notices my elegantly substantial tail,” she said, grinning as he flinched away from her teeth. “And if the softskin allows me to walk, I demonstrate why the Saxheel of the eastern marshes are the most desirable of our people.”

Ralof gave her a wary look, and rolled his eyes as a faint giggle came from the third member of their party. “She's teasing me again, isn't she, Falanu?”

The Dunmer shrugged as she swerved around a rut in the road, still remaining just out of arms-reach. “We both came very close to getting executed because you lot got the Imperials wound up,” she said quietly. “Perhaps you should be glad she's sharpening her tongue on you and not her claws?”

The young Stormcloak flinched and squinted down at the sharp-tipped fingers digging into his collar. “Thank you for reminding me,” he sighed. “I was trying not to think about that.”

The Argonian nudged her cheek against his, and churred. “The Nord has no need to fear. I will not harm him first.”

“What do you mean, ‘first’!”

“I think I see Riverwood,” Falanu interrupted before the sniping could begin again. Ahead of them between the trees, the road was framed by an arch of wood and stone. The timber gates were standing open, and the only guard was paying more attention to the old woman haranguing him than to any travellers.

Ralof nodded politely as he passed through the gateway, hoping that as long as he pretended that there was nothing odd about having an Argonian draped over his shoulder, no one else should react. It seemed to work well enough, and he turned down the hard-beaten path towards the saw-mill attracting no more than a few odd looks, Falanu slipping unnoticed in his wake.

They could hear the whir and clatter of the saw first, and the voice of a woman shouting instructions over the noise of wood jolting through the machinery and down the ramp. Ralof took Dreams-Of-Wings down to the little jetty tucked against the mill and crouched to let her down. The Argonian clicked her tongue, and relaxed as she eased her torn feet into the cool water.

“Falanu, could you stay with Dreams here, and see what you can do? There should be a splinter kit… ah, there.” He scooped a small box up from the base of a tool rack and held it out. “I'll talk to my sister, Gerdur, see how things are going. You'll be able to stay the night, I'm sure.”

The woman took the box warily, and watched as he made his way up into the mill before turning her gaze to the other. Dreams-Of-Wings held her hand out for the kit.

“I can take care of this myself if the Dunmer cannot,” she said. “But I do not bite if she comes closer.”

Falanu swallowed, and walked forward, kneeling down on the rough planks of the jetty. “I do not think we have ever been properly introduced,” she said, intent on the contents of the box. “I am called Falanu Samandas. I am a bard, when I have my instruments.”

“And I am Dreams-Of-Wings, of the College of Winterhold, but Dreamer will do well enough.” The Argonian lifted one long foot out of the water and placed it next to Falanu. The scales of the sole were warped and blackened, with charred shards of wood wedged into the gaps, and the webbing between two toes had torn.

“Can you heal this if I remove the splinters?” Falanu asked. “And… a College Mage? Why did they arrest you?” She shifted around to get the best light and bent over the foot.

Dreamer hissed under her breath as the first splinter came loose. “Restoration is not my art, but it is not hard once the wound is clean. I speak to the College of Whispers and the Synod for the Arch-Mage: diplomatic matters, you understand? I do not expect to have such trouble returning. What of you?”

“War is bad for everyone except the Thalmor,” the other woman muttered. She did not reply immediately, switching tools for a better grip on a deeply- embedded fragment. “Travelling in the wrong place at the wrong time, unfortunately. At least the Stormcloaks honour a bard’s right to pass freely.”

“You take advantage of that, yes?” Amusement gleamed in Dreamer’s eyes as the Dunmer froze for a moment.

“Do you want these out or not,” Falanu demanded, waving a pair of tweezers in the Argonian’s face. Dreamer snorted softly and leaned back, ostentatiously relaxed.

“Steal not from me and I care not,” she said. “The Nord thinks you a harmless innocent, he will not act against you. Lokir?”

“Taking me to scout a potential mark,” the Dunmer admitted. “He was not the brightest spark in the fire by any means, but a good judge of horseflesh all the same, poor lad.”

The sound of raised voices in the mill caught their attention for a moment. Dreamer snorted again.

“He tells the others of the dragon, do you think?”

“I wouldn't have believed it myself,” Falanu replied “Some myths should not walk in daylight.”

The mage hummed thoughtfully. “I am a scholar of Alteration. Reality is tough, yes, but also very malleable for those who understand it. It is easier to return what is once, than to create what is not.”

“Which means, what, precisely?”

The Argonian rattled her claws on the timbers, considering how best to put it. “I have not the power to do this. Waking the rotting dead is one thing, returning the dead to blooming life is quite another. Power and skill are needed and, for all I know who have one or the other, I cannot think of one living who has both.”

“You mean the Princes are involved,” Falanu said, and flicked her fingers to ward away Their attention.

Dreamer shrugged in reply. “Perhaps the Divines think it needful? I do not know, but I also do not think that the dragon will return to its slumber after burning one minor village.”

“It was seen flying north.”

They both looked up, and Falanu's hands tightened around the tweezers. Ralof was standing at the foot of the mill just behind a tall blonde woman who looked much like him.

“We didn't believe Hilde, but since Ralof saw it too...” Gerdur said, and scowled. “They need to know up at Whiterun, if they don't already. Can one of you walk? It should be someone who’s seen the thing up close.”

Ralof explained quickly. “I can't go to Whiterun, and I need to report in anyway, in case the others didn't make it. Dreams, how's your foot?”

Dreams-Of-Wings twisted her leg around to eye the damaged sole. She frowned and shook her head. “The splinters and the burns are within my ability to heal, but the webbing must be done carefully or it remains split. Safer to let that repair itself a little more first, tomorrow perhaps.”

They turned to Falanu, who had sat back on her heels when Gerdur spoke up, tense and wary. She licked her lips and nodded. “I will go to Whiterun,” she said, barely louder than the burbling river. “If you think the Jarl will believe a bard’s tale of dragon fire in Helgen.”

“Right, then.” Gerdur strode forward and stuck out a hand, twitching her fingers impatiently when Falanu didn't take it right away. “Come with me, girlie, and we’ll find you a cloak and something to eat on the way. Mara knows you need it.” She hauled the slighter woman easily to her feet, and began steering her around the corner of the house.

“Ralof, you go find Frodnar, the boy’s around here somewhere,” Gerdur called over her shoulder. “Get him to help the lady lizard out, she can have a pallet by the fire in the meantime.”

“Well,” Ralof said, rubbing the back of his neck. “That's me told. Will you be alright out here by yourself?”

Dreams-Of-Wings waved him away with a smile, and pulled the splinter kit closer. The sooner she got the wounds cleaned, the sooner she could start casting.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: The distance between inns tends to be about one days travel by carriage. Someone on horseback or a trained courier could do two stretches if they pushed it, but most travellers don’t bother.
> 
> I’m sorry, but you can’t tell me you’ve got two towns and a city each a hour apart _on foot_. In-game, fine, but otherwise no.


	2. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected event that changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor AU, remember. Most things happen, but the timing may be a little different to what you expect.

In the normal way of things, Lurog gro-Khazgur took a leisurely breakfast, discussing the plans of the day with the others of the Circle over eggs and fresh bread. As the Harbinger, he seldom took jobs more than a half-days travel from Jorrvaskr anymore, and he learnt more of the mood of the Companions by bickering with Farkas over the last sweetroll than from any three nights holding court in the great hall.

Perhaps it was the weather today but he felt jittery, as if he was trapped outside in full armour during a thunderstorm, waiting for lightning to strike. No one else seemed to feel it; he snapped at Aela when she didn't pass the butter quick enough, and she merely blinked and pushed over the jam as well. Even the bickering between Athis and Njada was no worse than usual, even while it rubbed his nerves raw.

“Harbinger? Harbinger!” Vilkas tapped his shoulder and peered at him curiously. “Lurog, are you in there?”

Lurog shook his head and turned to face the young man. “Sorry, lad, my thoughts were wandering. Something you wanted?”

Vilkas shrugged. “Nothing major,” he said, offering an ornately marked envelope. “Just another letter from the jarl in Falkreath, asking for something that's probably more political than he'll admit.”

“Leave it on my desk and I'll check it this evening,” Lurog sighed, and pushed himself back from the table. “I'm no use to man or mer like this.”

“You'll be at the stables if we need you?” Aela asked over her shoulder, looking up from her discussion with Farkas.

“Yeah, probably,” he said, snatching up the last hard-boiled egg and waving it at them in farewell. “Stay out of trouble, you lot.”

Outside was bright in comparison to the candle-lit dimness of the hall, and he paused at the top of the stairs to rap the egg against the back of his gauntlet, breaking the shell loose. The day looked to be clear and cold, and peaceful; even the preacher ranting about Talos in the courtyard below was expected, if unwelcome.

No bandits on a too-successful raid, no Stormcloaks or Legionnaires in full armour attempting to be diplomatically intimidating, no arrogant Thalmor trying to provoke war. Lurog's back twitched and he stomped down the stairs, leaving the crushed eggshell on the roots of the Gildergreen, and marched off through the Wind District.

The egg gave way too easily under his teeth to slake his temper, disappearing in two quick bites. Lurog didn't bother greeting anyone, and thankfully all the children seemed to be playing by the moat so he didn't need to be nice. It wasn't as if he liked making kids cry. He took the steps down into the Market District two at a time, and almost tripped over his own feet after catching sight of Irileth of all people standing by the barracks.

The housecarl looked unhappy at being more than a room away from her jarl, and the soldiers lining up before her were being very careful not to annoy her further. Lurog considered her expression, compared it with his current disposition, and sighed.

“Anything I can help with?”

Two soldiers jumped as Lurog spoke, but Irileth just looked at him sidelong.

“Strange reports from the Western Watchtower,” she said bluntly. “I'm taking a patrol out for a look if you want to come along.”

Lurog fell in beside her as the troop marched through the gate and down the road, easily matching the legion-pace.

“You look like I feel,” he noted mildly once they had passed the stables and the crossroad, glancing over his shoulder at a child-sized figure bolting up the road behind them.

Irileth snorted. “On the lines, waiting for the charge?” she asked. “Farengar's got a bee in his bonnet, and I don't like those reports. Something's coming and we're not ready.”

They shared a worried look and turned back to watch the road. Up ahead, the Western Watchtower caught the morning sun, wisps of misty grey rising from the stone.

“That's not right!”

Irileth sped up, the soldiers trotting after her like ducklings. Lurog let them pass and spun to look behind them. His back was still twitching but the road was empty, and nothing moved further out on the plains even though he knew there was a giant's camp due north of here. No bird calls, no wolves, only the babble of soldiers.

He turned again and caught up to the troop, offering a hand to a young man emptying his guts in a corner. The courtyard stank of blood and burning flesh, underpinned by something strange and sour. The combination was enough to make his own stomach churn, and Lurog was leading poor Engar away to sit on the edge of the ramp when his instincts _shrieked_.

“Inside!” he roared. The sky roared back, a thunderous snarl that went straight down his spine and hit the lever marked 'hunted'. Lurog scooped up the kid and ran for the door, harrying the slowpokes into the tower as a shadow swept over them. Irileth hauled on his arm as he crossed the threshold, pulling him to the side just as fire burst through the doorway and licked over one of the soldiers who hadn't been so lucky.

“Arrows,” Irileth growled. “Everyone find a bow! Spread out on the stairs and two at the door, remember to dodge! Boren, check the stores for potions! Move!”

Engar hurried off wiping his mouth as soon as Lurog put him down, and the Companion took a place by the door, settling his shield on his arm and readying his axe.

“If you're planning on playing distraction,” Irileth said. “You can wait until we've knocked the blighted thing back a bit.”

Lurog grinned at her, battlefury already rising in his throat, and the housecarl rolled her eyes at him.

“You can't fi—” She jerked back as a small figure tumbled through the door between them and latched onto Lurog.

“Falanu?” he blurted out. The slight Dunmer held up a finger as she gasped for breath. Finally, she was able to speak enough to be heard over the roaring coming from the roof.

“...Dragon...”

Irileth scowled at her kinswoman. “We noticed.”

The other Dunmer shook her head. “Black dragon. At Helgen. Gone.”

“Two of them?”

“You mean the other dragon is gone, right?” Lurog asked hopefully. Falanu shook her head again, and for a moment his blood ran cold.

“Change of plans,” Irileth snapped. “Harbinger, I want it pinned here. Keep its attention any way you can. Kari, Anya, back him up. Falanu...” She took a second look at the woman's uncharacteristic dress, more suited to a Nord farmwife than a travelling bard. “Just... stay out of the way.”

Falanu nodded and took Kari's bow and quiver as the man drew his sword.

“Hold back until it lands,” Lurog added. “Then look for openings.” He waited until the thing took off again, listening for the rhythmic pounding of wings, and charged down the ramp and up onto the crumbling remnant of the outer wall. The berserk took him as he ran, roiling in his blood like wildfire and pouring from his throat in a cackling howl.

Despite what some people thought, he never really lost track of his surroundings in a berserk. It was more a matter of focus, all his attention bound to his purpose. Obstacles and injuries were irrelevant, swamped beneath a lupine determination. There were reasons he tried not to use it in company.

The dragon seemed just as obsessed with him, swooping down again and again to strike with claw or tooth when fire swept over him to no effect. He'd pay for it latter, but for now there was only the stench of meat rotting and roasted, the spine-shivering windroar of its voice. He was vaguely aware of a shout and a scream as one of the soldiers darted in to slash the beast's wing open only to burn as it turned on the boy in pained fury, but what registered was an opening, a moment when the neck curved above him unprotected. He leapt and swung, dragging the sharp axehorn through the thin scales under its chin.

Bright, hot blood fell like rain, and Lurog bounced back out of the way as the dragon slumped to the ground, still trying to strike him down. He waited just out of reach as its life seeped into the charred grass, letting the berserk drain away to leave bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. Irileth stood at the top of the ramp, her bow still ready in her hands, and Anya crouched at the base. He caught barely a glance of Falanu, trying to pull a body out from under the beast's tail, when it shuddered into death and the berserk rose again in an instant, burning-frost-white when it should have been red.

Lurog shut his eyes and growled, mentally throwing his shoulder against a door of will. _Wrong, this is wrong!_ White and cold and old, chaotic and directionless. Broken. _Don’t make Irileth kill you!_ He shoved it away, trying to force it back into the small furious coal in the corner of his mind that never went out. A tendril slipped sideways, drawn to a impression of scratched stone walls and soundless thunder. _Well, gift horses and all that_. The memory absorbed the white easily and settled into the base of his throat, feeling rather like over-fermented mead.

He opened his eyes, blinking, and tilted his head back.

“ **Raan** ,” he said, the word resounding like a bell, and he heard murmurs from behind him where the soldiers had gathered on the ramp.

“Did you see?” “That's the Thu’um!” “But before that...” “Dragonborn?”

The dragon—Mirmulnir—was nothing more than old grey bones, scraps of weathered hide clinging to the joints. Falanu was clearly visible through the bare bones of the wing, mouse-still and wide-eyed, with both hands clamped over her mouth. The fire in her lungs crackled and spat, clearly audible, and what confused him more than his own Thu’um was how no one seemed to hear hers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: the whole Dragonborn, soul-eating thing is instinctive. One on their own, untrained, will grab at everything and may end up with the personality as well as the ~~power~~ memory. Two or more will tear it between them and the personality usually escapes (and may resurrect itself in time), but one with better training can overcome another with a bit of effort (Hi Miraak!).
> 
> NB: I think I was planning to link in another work as an inspiration, but I can’t remember which one. Watch this space?


	3. Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hearing and heeding a call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “This is speech.”  
> /This is signing./
> 
> Edit 11/03/18: Minor addition of end of chapter. Sorry, got missed when originally posted.

/This is beyond belief!/

       /But it is true./

            /We agree, there are at least four?/

/I still think three./

       /It doesn’t matter. The dragons have returned and so ha–/

/Are we sure they are not dragons?/

       /Really, Wulfgar? The timbre is completely different./

/Not that different./

           “Enough!”

/Sorry./

       /Sorry./

            /Borri, your thoughts?/

                 /Call them. If we are right, they will come. If we are not, they won’t./

       /Seems like a good idea to me./

            /Any objections, Wulfgar?/

/None at all, as long as I may say ‘I told you so’. Shall we?/

 

* * *

  
“Blight take it, Hrongar, I’m not saying I won’t defend Whiterun,” Lurog sighed. They'd been arguing in circles for three hours, repeating everything that had been discussed yesterday, and he wanted some hot metheglin and a nap. _Why have I got Malacath's own headache when he’s the hotheaded nitwit who won’t shut up?_ “I just think there's more to worry about than the war.”

Balgruuf leaned back in his chair and shook his head at his brother. “Helgen's a wake-up call in more ways than one, Hrongar. The Colleges are neutral; if the Imperials are acting against them, it’s not a good sign.”

“The Stormcloaks are going to start pushing us to declare for them,” Irileth said quietly from her position at the jarl's back. “And if they find out what you two can do…”

On the other side of the room, Falanu halted in her pacing. “Then we remain neutral,” she rasped, and coughed. “Lu's Harbinger, I’m a sworn bard.”

“And Cary's going to go spare when she hears about Helgen,” Lurog continued for her. “That's three factions who’ll defend your right to stay out of this mess.” _Assuming Dreams-Of-Wings gets home safe_. He tried not to think about the consequences if she didn’t; dragons would be the least of their worries.

The jarl pushed himself up and stalked over to the sideboard to pour himself a mug of ale. They waited as he stared into space, muttering under his breath. Finally, he walked back to the table and set his mug down beside the map, and leaned over it to run his finger along the road through Rorikstead.

He shook his head. “The city might be able to stave off an army—might!—but we’d lose the hold, and what's the point then? We can’t risk openly defying either–”

“ **Dovahkiin!** ”

“What in the world was that!”

Falanu snatched up her staff and backed out of the way while the warriors in the room drew their weapons, but Balgruuf frowned, turning towards the door. The young guardsman who burst in was lucky enough to be recognised before something permanent happened to him.

“Alof? What's going on?” Irileth snapped.

Balgruuf waved her back. “Never mind that, which direction did it come from?” he asked. Lurog frowned suddenly. It almost sounded as if the jarl had an idea that just needed confirming.

“South-East, my jarl,” the young man said quickly. “And Eofel Long-Eye said there's snowslips on the Throat.”

“High Hrothgar,” Balgruuf said with a touch of relief. “The Greybeards are calling the Dragonborn up to the monastery.” He leaned against the table and shook his head. “Hrongar, go tell the lads to stand down; this isn’t our concern anymore.” His brother nodded reluctantly and left with a sidelong glance at Lurog, closing the door carefully behind him.

_I'm not getting that nap, am I._

Balgruuf clapped his hands and glanced between the fighter and the bard. “Ivarstead,” he said. “One of you know where to find it?” Falanu rolled her staff in her fingers, casting a quick look at Lurog, and nodded warily. “Straight up from there, and pack for the snow. Divines, I wish I could go with you.”

 

* * *

 

“I have Urag searching the Arcanaeum for anything relating to dragons,” Caranya said, weighing the oversized vertebrae in one hand as she paced, tallying her resources. The Boof looked up as she stepped over him, and then returned to his half-gnawed bone. “The courier's been sent to Whiterun for Farengar. We’ll have to wait for Dreamer to get back to add her newest research to the pile, I don’t know where she keeps her notes.”

Tolfdir looked up from the burn mark he’d been following across the terrace on hands and knees, his nose barely a foot from the paving. “If it's urgent, you could try the Midden,” he suggested. “I think I’ve seen her working up on Draugr's Walk occasionally.”

“I think we'll have enough to read in the meantime,” Phinis said absently. He placed one more rune on the bone in his lap, and smirked as the dark ink crackled with red sparks. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Caranya and Tolfdir looked at each other, and she gave the elderly man a hand up as he struggled to his feet. They joined the Conjuration Master in the belvedere, sitting on the timber benches under the great round windows, with the puppy dragging his toy over in their wake.

“As you prefer,” Caranya ordered, gently pushing the Boof down when he tried to sprawl across her lap. Phinis capped his inkwell and set the quill down, letting one end of the long bone slide to the ground.

“First of all, it's reanimation, not summoning. I’ll need to check you over later, Arch-Mage, make sure it can’t get out of your head, but as long as your shields hold and we can keep the bones out of reach of anyone playing musical souls, this thing is unlikely to show up again anytime soon.”

“That's wonderful,” Tolfdir said, relaxing against the window sill. “This will be a grand opportunity for our students. I’m sure they’ll be fascinated.”

Caranya eyed the bone warily. “And the bad news?”

“I couldn’t do this,” Phinis said bluntly. “There are some interesting qualities about the components that would make it easier, and on the other hand it couldn’t be done _at all_ without the corresponding body and soul, but–”

“ **Dovahkiin!** ”

All three of them stared at the mountains in shock, and the Boof dropped his bone and ducked under the bench, cowering behind Caranya’s legs.

“What in Oblivion was that?” Tolfdir whispered. Phinis shrugged, but Caranya stood up and leaned out the southern window, staring at the mountains with narrowed eyes.

“Phinis? You were saying?” she said finally.

“Not a mortal necromancer,” he admitted. “As far as I can tell, the invocation was entirely auditory but the magicka consumed is insufficient for the power requirements. I’m certainly missing something, but...”

She bent to scoop the puppy out from under the bench, long legs draped over her arms, and stalked past them to gaze at the remains scattered over the terrace.

“But we don’t know who they are or how they are doing this,” the Arch-Mage said. “And until we know that, we can’t stop them doing it again.”

 

* * *

  
Old bones rested gently in the snow, the first faint traces of frost creeping over them. As proof of live dragons went, they’d be useless within a day. Maering scowled at them thoughtfully, and shifted his gaze to the couple perched on a fallen log nearby. Hjalti was sipping her potion carefully and listening to the lizard explaining... something to do with magic. It seemed to know its stuff about dragons, at least, and nearly sharing the block with the Jarl should keep it away from the Imperials.

He moved closer and caught Hjalti's eye. The young thane jumped up quickly, pulling her new friend with her.

“Captain? Are we needed?” Her voice was still a little husky from the Thu’um, but whatever the dragon had done didn’t seem to have had any other lasting effects.

Maering shook his head. “We need to move on. This is the only road south of the Throat, and I want us off it before the Imperials start poking around. You coming with us, lizzie?”

The lizard stared at him, then threw its head back and tossed the last of its own potion down its throat. “I need to reach Winterhold quickly, but I cannot move fast. There is much the Arch-Mage must know.” It didn’t sound much different to before, but he was certain it had used the Thu’um as well. _Since when can mages do that?_

“I’ll keep her with me,” Hjalti put in. “I can carry her piggyback, and we’ll borrow a horse at the next camp.” She paused, the snow squeaking under her feet as her weight shifted. “Do you think the Jarl will be there?”

“If we haven’t found him yet, we probably won’t before Windhelm,” Maering said firmly. “There must have been a turncoat at Darkwater, so he’ll be careful going home.”

She didn’t seem reassured, and Maering gave her a confident smile and a pat on the shoulder before he turned away. _Poor girl, hopefully the Jarl will be able to train her. The last thing we need is for her to be shut away up on that mountain._ He began to gather everyone up, making ready to move.

“ **Dovahkiin!** ”

The air shook, and one of his men yelped as the branches over his head dropped their load of snow down his neck. Maering grasped the hilt of his sword and looked around, waiting for an ambush. _Multiple voices, all male, north of here._ The echoes died away and they slowly relaxed.

“Was that the Greybeards?” Hjalti asked softly. The lizard snorted and thumped her arm with the back of a scaled hand.

“Home first,” it snapped. “Then we find out what they want.”

 

* * *

  


In a sea cave just outside Dawnstar a man flails out of sleep, landing on the flagstones beside his bed with wide eyes and bristling fur.

In Riften, a young boy stares in wonder at his lute upon the rack as high, pure notes croon from untouched strings.

And in High Hrothgar, half-way up the Throat of the World, the Greybeards wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Boof, more formally known as Guilliam Bouffant the Third or more often Billy Boofhead, is Caranya’s dog. His dam is a pedigreed Nordic Wolfhound, but no one knows what the sire was besides big and fluffy. The breeder gave him to Lurog as a belated reward for finding and bringing the dam back (she got out while in heat), and Lurog gave him to Caranya after the puppy tried to make friends with a boar. Lovely nature, no common sense.


	4. The Hierophant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living faith in everyday life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor changes to notes in Chapter 2 and the end of Chapter 3.

The wind-blown thump of the main door, unexpected though it was, was clearly audible from the main hall. Borri put the laundry basket down quickly and went to see what was going on. He was sure Wulfgar had checked the delivery chest today, and it wasn’t as if they used that door for anything else. _Oh, my!_

The corridor was crowded with more people in one place than he’d seen since Riggir died, and only one a Nord. _And Arngeir’s still outside with Einarth. Just perfect._ He waved a hand to catch their attention, and twisted it in question. The Nord stepped forward, a young woman in Stormcloak blue and a singed cloak.

“Master Greybeard? I’m Hjalti the Loud,” she said politely, an oddly familiar timbre in her voice. “I think you called for us?”

He must have looked fairly shocked, for the girl shifted uneasily and glanced back at the others. The Orc rolled his eyes and lifted his hand.

“Lurog gro-Khazgur,” he rumbled, and the air shivered. “Harbinger of Jorvaskr, if it matters to you. This is m’lady wife, Arch-Mage Caranya of Winterhold,” he waved at the blandly smiling High Elf next to him, “Master-Wizard Dreams-Of-Wings,” the Argonian shifting from one foot to the other beside her, “Falanu Samandas, a College Bard, and her fosterling Alesan.” The Dark Elf had her arms wrapped around a young Redguard boy, rubbing some warmth back into the child’s fingers.

She nodded to Borri politely. “I hope you don’t mind, kena. I didn’t want to leave him alone more than I had already.”

Borri blinked at her, still bewildered. _The elf as well?_ The Orc's voice was thick with the Reach, it wasn’t beyond the bounds of probability that he had Nord blood somewhere far back. For the Dark Elf, on the other hand, Skyrim was nothing more than a thin, practiced glaze over Morrowind’s blurred vowels, with the Thu’um a soft rasp underneath.

_Three of them. I suppose Wulfgar won that much._ He pulled himself together and directed them to the little nook where visitors could brush the snow from their clothes and kick the ice from their boots. Lurog pulled Borri out of the way when he was done to speak quietly.

“We brought the supplies up from Iverstead, left them in the coldstore for when you wanted them if that's alright,” the Orc said and gave him a sidelong look. “You know Klimmek's having a bit of trouble with the trek, right?”

/I didn’t, but not much we can do about it,/ Borri signed. The Orc frowned at his hands but seemed to get the gist of his meaning.

“Well, find me after this,” he continued. “Maybe we can work something out. I’ve got cubs twiddling their thumbs, and a bit of mountain climbing might do them some good.”

Borri shrugged and nodded. The others had finished cleaning up while they were talking, and he led them through the chilly corridors to the main hall where Arngeir should be waiting by now. The addition of a half-dozen talking visitors, however quiet, was very noticeable in High Hrothgar's echoing stone.

Someone, perhaps Einarth, had kindly refueled the braziers, warming the hall until it was almost comfortable for people who hadn’t spent their lives halfway up the Throat of the World. Arngeir stood in the centre with Wulfgar to his left and Einarth to his right, the latter hiding his grin in his beard. The potential Dragonborn and their associated hangers-on clustered near the heat, eyeing the Greybeards curiously.

/Our guests, Master Arngeir,/ Borri signed, and waved vaguely at the little group.

“Thank you, Master Borri,” Arngeir said aloud. “And... which of you are here to answer our summons?”

Hjalti, the Orc and the Dark Elf all raised a hand.

So did the High Elf and the Argonian.

In the corner of his eye, Borri saw Einarth fold over slowly, shoulders shaking and both hands clamped over his mouth. Wulfgar was gaping like a fish, and Borri spared a moment to thank Kynareth they were all trained not to swear aloud. Arngeir merely closed his eyes briefly and sighed.

“I see,” he said. “I think some testing is in order, if you don’t mind. Just to be sure.” It was very clear to Borri at least that testing would happen even if they did mind, and he moved out of the way so Wulfgar could set up the targets. He jumped as the young Redguard popped up by his elbow, and the boy grinned at him.

“Aunt Falanu wants to know if there's a way to tell about the Dragonborn thing before it happens,” Alesan said quietly. “A wall in Falkreath reacted to me, but she says I’m not allowed near a dragon until I’m sixteen.”

_Of course it did. Why am I surprised?_ Borri frowned and signed slowly. /What was the Word it gave you?/

The boy stared at Borri's hands. “Something about speaking... and I mentioned that wall... are you asking what it said?”

He nodded encouragingly. _I should dig up that crib sheet Ulfric made._

“Um, I heard ‘Krii’,” Alesan said, and flinched at Borri's look. “I know it’s something nasty, it was an assassin's den!”

He reached out to pat the boy's shoulder, pausing briefly as the Argonian's Fus bounced off the walls and swept an urn across the room. Here probably wasn’t the best place to sort this out. Borri caught Arngeir's eye across the room. /Want to show the boy something. Needs a better Word before he kills someone./

Arngeir nodded and turned his attention back to the High Elf looking down her nose at him. Borri led the boy into a meeting room just off the main hall and ushered him into a seat. The table was too heavy to move out of the way, but he was able to rearrange enough chairs to give him some space. He looked at Alesan and directed his attention to the blank wall by the door.

The Words he knew purred in his lungs like a basket of baby sabre cats, and Borri mentally sorted through them. _Something interesting, something a youngster can’t cause too much trouble with._ The Aura Whisper tickled in his throat as he focused on the odd twist of will needed to embed the Word into the wall instead of using it immediately.

“ **Laas!** ”

Alesan took a quick breath and stood up, his eyes wide. Borri drew him closer, watching as the burning Word-light pulled free of the stone and coiled gently around the boy, sinking into his skin. That on its own was almost enough proof: any trained Greybeard could learn a Word that way, albeit only after a year or more of meditation. He pushed the dazed boy gently back into his chair and sat down next to him.

/You have the knowledge of the Word, now I will show you how to use it./

He took the boy's hands gently and bowed his head. This was easier than embedding a Word, but more fiddly. Einarth’s little sister was a gemcutter, and he once described this as attempting to shape a gem from the inside. Borri felt more like he was trying to sing five verses of a song at once, but then he’d been interested in the College in Solitude once upon a time.

The imago of the Word took shape around them, and he pushed it gently at Alesan. _Hear, see, feel? This is how your lips move, how the power flows. This is your truth, and this, the way the world bends to be true._ The boy drank it in, pulled it up like a fishing line. He broke the connection quickly before the boy could drag him in like a hooked fish. When his eyes cleared, Alesan was bent double with his arms wrapped around his head and breathing hard.

“Oh, that’s weird,” he muttered, and Borri rolled his eyes. He grasped the boy's shoulders and pushed him upright, and sat back out of the way with a sweep of his hand.

/Go on, then. Speak./

The room was quiet, save for faint rumbling carrived in from the main hall. Alesan caught his breath and nodded. The Word drifted from his mouth like fog, swirling through the air and leaving the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg in its wake. Borri lifted his hand, smiling at the bright red life-light shimmering through his skin.

“ **Pruzah dreh, Dovahkiin**.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: canonically, two parts are needed to learn the Thu’um, and it is merely very difficult for mortals to learn it, not impossible. So, I’m guessing that the first part is the knowledge of the word you intend to use, bone-deep, this-is-what-X-means, and the second part is not so much power as the knowledge of how to use it to affect the world. 
> 
> Think of embroidery, where reality is the fabric, your soul/will/magicka store is the thread, the Word is the image you want, and the dragon-soul (dragon-memory?) is the pattern you follow to get the desired result.
> 
> The shaking when a Greybeard speaks is involuntary, uncontrolled reality-warping, because once they know how it’s hard to stop. They use Dovahzul because the better they know a language, the worse it gets.


	5. The Magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Using knowledge, resources, and will to create change in the world.

“I don’t think that inn has an attic,” Falanu said, looking sidelong at her companions. Lurog shrugged and loosened the strap on the pack at his feet. Dreams-Of-Wing considered the idea, running a creased piece of paper through her fingers.

“We know there is something odd going on, do we not?” she pointed out. “Perhaps this is leading us on a goose chase.”

Falanu snorted. “Or up the garden path.” She swung her own pack onto her shoulder, and tucked a pale bone flute into her sleeve. “Don’t follow too soon,” she added. “Give me some time to settle in.”

She slid down the bank onto the road, brushed a smear of dirt from her sleeve, and turned right, heading up the road towards Riverwood without looking back. Lurog settled back against a tree with a lapful of yarn and a wooden needle, eyeing Dreams-Of-Wings as she paced back and forward.

By the time he finished the second sock, the grass was trampled into the mud and Dreams-Of-Wing had resorted to gnawing at the base of her claws. Lurog packed his work away and got to his feet, catching the Argonian's sleeve.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to hang around? I could camp here for the night,” he suggested.

“No, no, you go home,” Dreams-Of-Wings shook her head and set the ribbons on her horns swaying. “Check on Farengar, perhaps he discovers something new since I speak with him. Falanu and I can look after ourselves.”

“You just want me trapped in Whiterun, don’t you,” Lurog sighed. The Argonian gave him a pointed look.

“Go back to Whiterun and find out what’s wrong with the horses,” she said firmly.

“They’re not wrong, they’re just reacting to–”

“Then you can train them out of it!” she snorted. “Now go, shoo.” Dreams-Of-Wings didn’t bother to say anything more as she climbed down to the road. Lurog would go or stay as he pleased, but he was not fool enough to follow her into Riverwood. She made good time along the road and reached the village just after supper, managing to slip into the inn relatively unnoticed.

Falanu was keeping the patrons well occupied, but then her regular circuit led through Riverwood and she’d know what they liked. Dreams-Of-Wings was careful to ‘notice’ the other woman as she came in, nodding politely. The scene they had made arriving with that young Stormcloak after Helgen would be all over town by now, and no one would believe they didn’t know each other. She edged past the tables and up to the bar, waiting until the innkeeper was free to speak.

“My friend informs me that the attic room here is most pleasant?”

The Imperial gave her an oddly intense look. “Your friend must have us confused with another inn,” she replied. “We don’t have an attic room, but I’m sure we can find a bed for you anyway.”

Dreams-Of-Wings followed her to the little room, thinking furiously. The woman's voice was familiar, but the shred of memory it evoked didn't feel quite like an inn. There was the bite of woodsmoke in the back of her throat and the dry, heavy heat of a hearthfire on her back, but also the bitter scent of cracked soul gems. Someone else's conversation, brisk softskin voices rattling against timber as well as stone. Not the College then, or a fort.

The puzzle occupied her thoughts, keeping her awake as the soft murmurs in the main hall dwindled and died. She startled and froze as the door to her room creaked, the dim glow of the banked fire limning a figure crouching by her bed.

“Dreamer, isn't it? Dreamer, are you awake?”

“Am now,” she muttered. “What is it?”

“I need to speak to you,” the woman whispered. “Get up.”

“Why?” Dreams-Of-Wings demanded. Spell-light would be too noticeable in the dark, but her knife was still in place under the pillow.

“We can't speak here, come on, follow me.”

“Why trust?” _Is she relying on me being too sleepy to think?_

“Here!” There was an exasperated breath, and something light for its size was pushed against her side. Dreams-Of-Wings twisted up and swept it into her lap, running the fingers of one hand over a smoothly twisted cone, following it up to the hollow mouth.

“A horn?”

“The horn you were looking for, am I right? Dragonborn?”

“What do you wish to speak of?”

“Not here! Follow me.”

The figure rose and left the room. Dreams-Of-Wings slid her knife into her belt and tucked the horn into the crook of her arm before following. The last thing she wanted was to lose it again.

The woman led her through the almost-empty hall, past Falanu snoring gently under a table with her head on her pack, into another bedroom where a false cupboard hid stairs down into a tidily cluttered basement. The tools expected of a fighter and a mage were arrayed along the walls, but the table in the centre was dedicated to books Dreams-Of-Wings recognised from her own research into dragons, with pride of place given to a familiar looking map.

“You are speaking with Farengar when I show him the dragonstone.”

“That's right,” the woman smirked. “I'm pretty sure by now you're no Thalmor spy. The name's Delphine.”

“And what have they to do with this?”

“The Thalmor want control over Skyrim,” Delphine explained. “Even if they aren't the ones bringing the dragons back, they'll still be planning to take advantage of the situation. To them, the Dragonborn—the ultimate dragonslayer—will be either a threat or a potential tool.”

“And to you?”

“I want to help you. If you _are_ the Dragonborn.”

Dreams-Of-Wings lifted her eyes from the map.

“Ah,” she said. “You wish proof.”

Delphine nodded, and sorted through a stack of paper to pull out a list of dates and numbers. She compared it with the map and tapped her finger on a pencilled cross to the southeast of Windhelm.

“Kynesgrove,” she said. “If we can get there within four days, that should be where the next one shows up.”

“Very well,” Dreams-Of-Wings sighed, and laughed as the other woman blinked at her. “You do not expect me to agree so quickly? I expect your research in return, mind you.”

“I thought you'd want more of an explanation.”

“I know dragons,” the mage said bluntly, fixing Delphine with a stern eye. “I know the Thalmor. I know that allies against both are of great use, and that one must give trust to gain it.”

Delphine nodded. “We go to Kynesgrove, then.”

“You go to Kynesgrove,” Dreams-Of-Wings told her, and patted the old horn still cradled in one arm. “I go to Iverstead first, to return something important. _Then_ I meet you there.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No headcanon today.  
> You know how they say writing is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration? Turns out that coughing fits every five minutes for two weeks really do a number on both, and my buffer is getting scary-low.


	6. The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A situation of flux and uncertainty, fraught with either deception or the revealing of important truths.

Falanu emptied the crate swiftly, handing each wrapped cheese to Malborn to placed on the larder shelf. One oddly shaped bundle and then a second were set to one side as she worked, and finally a roll of fabric was pulled out. Falanu shook it out into the silver-edged layers of a Thalmor robe and gave Malborn a surprised look. The Bosmer grinned back and helped drape the robe properly over her shoulders.

The bundles were unwrapped, the lockpicks slid into her hair, her little penknife tucked into her left glove and the laces tightened, a simple copper ring on her finger and an innocuous-seeming amulet fastened around her neck. Falanu pulled the hood low over her eyes and stepped out into the corridor, hearing the kitchen door lock quietly behind her. _Here we go._

She brushed her hand over the amulet as she paced down the corridor, but held back for the moment. _You'll need it later. Keep moving, don't draw attention, don't let them gauge your height._ There were no reports of children in the embassy, otherwise this would have been much easier. Heeled shoes could only do so much.

Falanu turned into a side room to let a patrol pass by, counting footsteps and slipping out again behind their backs. She didn't dare stop in the common room they'd left, but a few vials and gems found their way into her pockets as she passed. The door out to the courtyard creaked open and shut just as the guards returned, and Falanu did her best to walk tall until she could sidestep into the shadow of a clipped tree and relax slightly.

_Stop. Breathe. Think._

The moons were both half-full. Two guards patrolling around the snowy courtyard. A third on sentry duty by the wall. A fourth stood right on the doorstep of the other building, and there wasn't time to look for another way in. She stepped away from the tree, trusting to the double moonshadow to confuse any watchers, and walked steadily across the courtyard.

Her pace was carefully timed to keep One and Two at a distance, and Three stayed at his post. None of them seemed inclined to stop her, not when her path led directly to Four. She could see the doorwarden begin to frown, suspicions rising as he was approached by the shortest Thalmor in existence. The robes held just long enough, getting her close enough to lay a hand on his chest as he went to speak, the flare of copper-green light hidden between them.

“I'm supposed to be here.”

“Who–?”

“You know me, and I'm supposed to be here.”

Falanu turned the enchanted guard as if they were dancing, until he stood blocking the view of the watchers in the courtyard. It was the work of a moment to push the door handle with one hand, grasp the amulet with the other, and spin through the door, pulling invisibility over herself like a cloak as she went.

The guard on the other side looked around as the door closed with a click and a wisp of cold air. Falanu held her breath, and waited until he looked away again, ducking behind a column before the invisibility disintegrated. From there, it was a matter of staying in the shadows as she followed the wall around, and searching anything interesting.

The first office held little of interest, besides a letter or two that sparked plans for later thefts. Falanu smiled as she tucked those away; careless accountants were so _useful_. A robed Thalmor suddenly decided to enter the next room just as she approached, but it was worth the scare. The office clearly belonged to the Ambassador herself, and while she was more diligent than her subordinate at disposing of documents, she seemed to think magical locks were sufficient security for a lockbox.

Falanu's penknife made quick work of the hinges, and she pulled the files out smoothly, keeping one eye open for trouble . Reports, lists, dossiers, receipts, this wasn't the place to read more than the headings, so she set aside a few folders that seemed relevant, slid the rest back into the chest and put the hinges back together. The amulet was out of magicka, and the doorwarden wouldn't be fooled so easily a second time, so she took the stairs down carefully. The other mer hadn't come back up, and the Thalmor seemed like the sort to have another way out.

She didn't meet him on the stairs, at least, and there was no one visible when she cracked the door open.

Instead, there was screaming.

Falanu scrambled inside, barely remembering to close the door behind her. A rail nearby marked the edge of the balcony, and the room below was divided into cells. The Thalmor she'd seen before was sitting at a desk beside the only occupied cell, making notes as another guard tried to beat more answers out of an already bruised Breton.

_Etienne! Mine!_

Leaving one of her magpies behind was out of the question, but sneaking him out past the guards just wouldn't be possible. Falanu sorted through her stolen vials hopefully, and grinned. She had to wait until Etienne was knocked out and the guard moved away out of her superior's line of sight to act.

An instant of paralysis, and some filched rags, and Falanu had the mer wrapped up like a Nord mummy with Lord Nasty none the wiser. He wasn't so lucky: a second swipe of poison on her penknife bought her time to cut his throat. She shoved the body under the desk, and concentrated on searching the drawers.

_Don't think, he deserved it, move._

Etienne was still out of it as she got the shackles unlocked and dragged him to the trapdoor she found tucked in an alcove. One last sweep in case she'd missed something, and there were voices up on the balcony where she'd come in: two sounding like they were straight out of Alinor, and one more thick with Valenwood and fear. _Enough of this!_

She managed to throw herself under the stairs before they came down, waiting patiently for the trio to reach the floor. The next few moments were chaos, ending with one guard dead, another fighting her enchantment, and Malborn staring at her in disbelief.

“They know something's up,” he stammered. “They're going to be after me!”

Falanu rolled her eyes and shoved him towards the trapdoor, before using the hilt of the dead guard's sword to knock the live one out. Hiding the bodies would buy them time and confusion, but she decided that this job was officially Over. To blazes with secrecy, they were getting out of here if she had to break the walls down herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This one, two more in Little Secrets, then back again for good. I think. Gah.


	7. The Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guidance, serenity, and hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I skipped over A Cornered Rat. The watsonian reason is that nothing much happened (Falanu already knew where Esbern was, so she dragged him out and ordered the Thieves Guild to stall the Thalmor), the doylist reason is that my game glitched and repeating that quest a half dozen times spiked any desire to write about it.
> 
> Esbern’s prophecy is canon.

The view from the hillside was impressive. Sturdy bridges crisscrossed the river, leading to wide platforms supporting what Hjalti had to admit was a well-established settlement. Behind the tents of untreated hide—she could smell it from here—and the barbaric totems, she could spot a tidy cooking area and a working forge bellows.  
  
_Uncle Galmar said the Forsworn are nothing but rabble,_ she mused. _But if they are choosing which parts of civilisation to take or leave, does he realise how cunning they are?_  
  
Her thoughts were disrupted by a loud commotion on the stone courtyard right below them. A huddle of boulders concealed their group from wary eyes, but also meant she couldn't see what was going on. Esbern and Dreams-Of-Wings were engrossed in their murmured conversation, but Delphine was merely waiting, still uncertain of their new alliance.  
  
The argument ended, a shrill two-note whistle cut the air, and Hjalti grinned.  
  
“That's our cue,” she said cheerfully and stood up, bouncing down the hill and into the courtyard with a deliberately obnoxious lack of concern. Behind her, Dreamer pulled Esbern to his feet and ushered the two Blades on.  
  
Falanu waited for them at the entrance to the cave, surrounded by wary Forsworn, and Hjalti spared a moment to be grateful for the bard's instructions to change her scarf. _Stormcloak colours would be a very bad idea right now._ It was still nerve-racking as an old man in an antlered mask looked the four of them up and down, and snorted. Finally, he turned away and led most of his people away down the steps, leaving behind a tall young man with a wide gouge in his chest that seemed to be leaking resin rather than blood.  
  
“Falanu? Is that a Briar-Heart?”  
  
“Don't touch anything and he won't touch us,” Falanu sighed. “Can we get a move-on? I don't want the hagraven finding out we're here.”  
  
“And how do you know they won't tell her?” Delphine asked sharply. The Blade had been twitchy ever since her Dragonborn had shown up on the bridge with company. Suspicious, perhaps, or just jealous, but it was worrying either way.  
  
Falanu didn't bother answering, turning away into the cave mouth and leaving Hjalti to run after her. She caught up to the bard in the first cave, a tidy, well-furnished room that wouldn't have shamed a Nord farmer. _I've seen barracks worse than this. Only before inspection, but still._  
  
“No problems earlier?” Falanu gave her a curious look as they waited for the others to catch up.  
  
“Nothing like negotiating with Forsworn.” Hjalti looked around and dropped her voice. “It would be insulting if I said they seemed pretty civilised, right?”  
  
“Yes, Hjalti, yes it would.”  
  
The Blades stalked up behind them, Dreams-Of-Wings winking over Delphine's shoulder. Falanu nodded sharply at a lantern-marked corner.  
  
“This way. Keep up!”  
  
Lanterns marked the first few bends in the wide corridor, but after that they had to shuffle through the darkness, hands brushing against the walls. Finally the cavern opened out again into a high gallery, open to the sky, with the afternoon sun pouring over square, grey stonework. Hjalti blinked in the sudden light, absently stepping aside to let Delphine past.  
  
“That is not Nordic,” she muttered, trying to figure out what material had been used to make the columns. “Some kind of Elvish work, maybe?”  
  
Delphine shook her head. “Akaviri. This is the entrance to the temple,” the other woman told her. “Any chance you'll stay behind to guard our backs?”  
  
“And miss out on all the fun? Don't be–”  
  
_Grrrrch!_  
  
They both looked up as a thin stone plate slowly pulled away from the wall until one end thumped down at Esbern's feet. The old man cackled and ran across the newly formed bridge, Dreamer close on his heels. _Looks like we're off again._ Hjalti brought up the rear along with the Briar-Heart, through narrow corridors, another puzzle room (and Delphine's offence when Falanu solved it), another bridge, more narrows, and finally a second open gallery with no obvious exit, the skylight so high above that sunlight barely touched the ground.  
  
A large chest set upon a low dais occupied the centre of the room, and a great stone head, pockmarked by centuries of rain, watched them serenely from the far wall. Hjalti sneered back at it and leaned over to catch her breath, twisting slightly to ensure the Briar-Heart remained in view. From the corner of her eye, she could see the mage, the bard, and the elder Blade discussing something furiously, while Delphine walked around the room laying her torch against the dusty coals in each brazier and stirring them into warm light.  
  
The voices grew louder, Dreams-Of-Wings' growling almost drowned out by Esbern's Imperial-tinged complaint. _How many years in hiding, and he still has an accent?_ The Argonian spun away, dragging Falanu by the wrist as she stormed over to Hjalti.  
  
“What do we wish them to know,” she hissed, and scowled at Hjalti's blank look.  
  
“It's a blood seal,” Falanu explained quietly, glaring at Delphine as she wandered too close. “An old one; there's no way to know how sensitive it is.”  
  
Hjalti blinked. “There is a test for the...? Oh.” She carefully didn't look at the Blades. Maybe they could hear her, maybe not, but either way... “This is the Reach. If it’s picking up descendants of Talos Stormcrown, half the Hold would probably qualify.”  
  
“Worth testing?” Dreams-Of-Wings asked with a tilt of her head.  
  
“Uh, Falanu?”  
  
The bard shrugged. “I'd rather go with a certainty.”  
  
“What she said.”  
  
Hjalti stared as the Argonian stomped back to the seal, snarling under her breath.  
  
“What'd I do?”  
  
“You need to start thinking for yourself, dear,” Falanu told her, patting her arm.  
  
“I was,” she grumbled. “I thought you had the right idea... oh, my word.”  
  
White mage-light spilled like water over the curve of the seal, and Dreams-Of-Wings stepped back before it could wash over her feet. The segments grated against each other, shifting one by one, and finally the stone head swung back, revealing a dark passageway and a flight of stairs leading up out of sight. Esbern stepped aside and waved the Dragonborn forward.  
  
Hjalti hung back, unwilling to leave the Briar-Heart at her back this time. The young man scowled at her and walked away to lean against the wall beside a brazier.  
  
“You're not coming?”  
  
He shook his head, flicking his fingers between the weeping scab on his chest and the seal set into the floor.  
  
“I have no idea what that's about, but alright then,” Hjalti muttered, and started up the steps, ducking as she passed under the head. Someone, probably Delphine, had lit the braziers and there was just enough light bouncing off the grey stone to see the murals etched into the walls on both sides. _Akaviri pictures are weird._  
  
Standing on the next landing, the light ahead was faint and cool, steady as firelight never was, and Hjalti quickened her step, darting through the archway only to stumble to a halt. Sunlight drifted down from the pierced ceiling high above, illuminating a room larger than the main hall of the Palace of the Kings. More stairs brought her up onto a platform with a long stone table, and an engraved wall along one side.  
  
Thousands of years of water and grime had worn away the paving, leaving the floor uneven. Hjalti stepped carefully as she made her way over to the right-hand end of the relief, joining Falanu and Dreams-Of-Wings as they listened to Esbern holding forth.  
  
“When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world,  
When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped,  
When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles,  
When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls,  
When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding,  
The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.”  
  
“Prophecy,” Falanu said, her lip curling. “And you think it's coming into play now?”  
  
“Dreamer is here, is she not? As is Alduin.” Esbern peered at the relief a bare inch from his nose, not daring to touch the ancient engraving.  
  
“Brass is the Anumidium,” Dreams-Of-Wings muttered, running a hand over one horn in thought. “Red for Red Mountain, White for White-Gold Tower. Snow, most likely the Throat?”  
  
“Skyrim as a whole,” Esbern pointed out.  
  
“Sundered, kingless, bleeding,” Hjalti echoed. “But none of the rest are countries, are they?”  
  
The bard and the mage looked at each other.  
  
“You look for what lore the Akaviri leave behind,” Dreams-Of-Wings said firmly. “I speak to the Greybeards.”  
  
“Leave Hjalti with me.” Falanu glanced back at the girl, smiling slightly. “She’ll be better at thinking like them than I. Tell Caranya we'll met up in Whiterun.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is still May (just) and I have posted as promised. Paarthurnax is playing hard-to-get, but I should be able to get the next chapter out sometime in June.
> 
> In case you’re wondering, the Blades think Dreams-Of-Wings is the one and only Dragonborn. They’re not the only ones confused.


	8. The High Priestess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something that can only be understood through experience.

Cloudy grey began to encroach on blue sky once again, and Dreams-Of-Wings scowled at the flakes of snow swirling around them.  
  
“Your turn,” she pointed out.  
  
Caranya grinned and tilted her head back. “ **Lok Var Koor**!” she cried, and shrieked as the backlash sent her skidding across icy stones. Dreams-Of-Wings dug her claws into the woman's shoulder and threw her weight sideways, pulling them to the ground.  
  
“I want a tail,” Caranya grumbled. “It would be so much easier to keep my balance.”  
  
The Argonian snorted, pulling her up carefully. “My webbing is numb and my toes ache. Fool Greybeards and their foolish liking for snow.” Not to mention there was a line of fire along her webbing where it had been split, but she wasn't going to turn back now.  
  
They began walking again under clearer skies, placing their feet carefully on the wind-swept ground. The narrow path took them between boulders and under overhangs, but there was only so much that could be done at this height to shield them from the chilly air. Caranya paused in the lee of a boulder and looked back thoughtfully at the thin swaying bridge they had just crossed.  
  
“Aren't you glad we didn't let Alesan come?”  
  
“The bard kills us,” Dreams-Of-Wings chuckled. “How do you stop him?”  
  
“Told him the Boof was too small to climb and too big to carry, so someone had to stay behind to look after him,” Caranya admitted.  
  
“And he believes you?”  
  
“No, but it gave him an excuse to stay out of the cold and fawn over Master Borri. Bet he'll be singing with the Thu'um by the time we get back.”  
  
Dreams-Of-Wings gave her a bemused look, shaking her head.  
  
“Softskins. **Lok Var Koor**!”  
  
Another turn, a series of hairpin bends, and they stopped again to catch their breath. Far below, Lake Geir sprawled across the Rift like quicksilver, and beyond it the foothills clustered around Shor's Stone. Dreams-Of-Wing approached the edge, letting herself imagine cold air under her wings, gleaming water spread out below like–  
  
The hard jerk of Caranya's hands on her collar shattered the illusion, and Dreams-Of-Wings scowled even as she backed away from the edge of the cliff.  
  
“Dreamer, I'm tired,” the Arch-Mage sighed over her shoulder. “If you go over the edge, I'll have to go after you, and we'll end up at the bottom and have to do this _all over again_.”  
  
“You need to get out more, lazybones,” Dreams-Of-Wings sighed, turning to poke the other woman with a clawed finger until she started walking again.  
  
“We need horses,” Caranya muttered wistfully. “Had Lurog sorted things out, when you stopped in Whiterun?”  
  
The Argonian steered her along with a hand on her back. “He is better with the foals, but they are young and stupid and used to him. I think we need to train them from scratch, if you wish to ride again.”  
  
Caranya sighed. “ **Lok Var Koor!** You can stop pushing now.”  
  
“Hah!”  
  
They went on and up until the path began to widen, becoming a steep ramp of snow. Dreams-Of-Wings clambered to the top on all fours, kicking steps into the snow for Caranya to follow.  
  
“I see fire,” she cried suddenly. “Coalsmoke! There must be shelter nearby!”  
  
“Finally.” Caranya dragged herself up the last few feet to the sound of Dreams-Of-Wings clicking irritably. “At least the wind has dropped.”  
  
Above the clouds the afternoon sun was blindingly bright, throwing the shadow of a Word Wall across the snow of the plateau, and the air seemed much warmer without the bite of the incessant wind. Caranya threw an arm over Dreamer's shoulder and they stumbled between the braziers together.  
  
“This Master Paarthurnax had better be–”  
  
“Hooraar!”  
  
“–Malacath's teeth!”  
  
Dreams-Of-Wings chuckled. “Lurog is such a bad influence,” she said absently, scanning the sky. “I think... there! There it is.”  
  
The women readied themselves as a pale dragon, wings ragged with age, landed heavily on the southern side of the plateau and shuffled itself around to face them. It was shorter and thinner than the one which had attacked Helgen, but its breath hummed with power and something in the back of Dreams-Of-Wings' mind recoiled like a wary snake.  
  
“Bet you it's sitting right on our path,” Caranya grumbled. Dreams-Of-Wings hummed, tilting her head as she inspected their newest obstacle and thought of rumours and the meanings of names, and then dumped the Arch-Mage unceremoniously into a snow drift.  
  
“Wait here.”  
  
“What? Dreamer!”  
  
She stepped lightly forward, her head low and her tail swinging slowly, and paused just out of the dragon's reach. The monster considered her with clouded eyes, waiting patiently, its laboured breathing warm against her face. Dreams-Of-Wings took a deep breath and gave courtesy as she would to an Elder in the Marsh, careful to set her tail and head to indicate acknowledgment-of-power and honour-to-age.  
  
“I am Dreams-Of-Wings,” she said. “May I know the Elder in return?”  
  
The dragon laughed at her gently and shifted the angle of his wings. If he had been Saxhleel, his pose might have been an odd form of listening-to-youngsters, but what it meant to a dragon was anyone's guess.  
  
“Drem yol lok, mal siigonis. I am Paarthurnax,” he rumbled. “What brings you and your friend to my strunmah, my mountain.”  
  
“I'm going to throw Arngeir off a _cliff_ ,” Caranya muttered as she clambered to her feet and approached them, swatting at the clinging snow on her tunic. “Caranya of Winterhold, Master Paarthurnax, Arch-Mage of the College thereof. I do apologise if we have trespassed, but we must speak with you regarding Alduin.” She bowed neatly and threw a wide-eyed look at Dreams-Of-Wings.  
  
Paarthurnax rumbled under his breath. “Alduin komeyt tiid. Alduin and dovahkiin return together as always,” he said. “Or dovahkinne, as may be.”  
  
“You know?”  
  
“I listen. I hear the Greybeards practice in Hrothgar below, but only very recently have I heard you and yours,” he pointed out. “But first I shall taste your Thu'um. It was been so long since another dov came for tinvaak.”  
  
He turned away towards the old Wall, and Caranya flapped the back of her hand against Dreams-Of-Wings' arm.  
  
“You knew!”  
  
“I guess,” Dreams-Of-Wings retorted.  
  
“You _knew!”_  
  
“I suspect!”  
  
“You're supposed to tell me these things!”  
  
" **Yol Toor Shul!** " A blaze of red swept above them, filling the air with the scent of blackrose resin, and both women ducked. Paarthurnax chuckled.  
  
“By long tradition, the eldest speaks first,” he said.  
  
Caranya scowled. “His sense of humour is worse than yours,” she said sidelong. “Right then. **Iiz!** ”  
  
Dreams-Of-Wings squawked and leapt out the way of the fizzing blur. It swept past her, leaving a swathe of pockmarks in the snow, and she glared.  
  
“You dare? **Fus!** ”  
  
The gust of wind fluttered the edge of Paarthurnax's wing, and slammed into the Altmer like a Dwemeri piston. Caranya staggered back, laughing, yelped, and threw herself forward, ending up in a panicked heap.  
  
“What in all spheres is _that_?”  
  
“What...” Dreams-Of-Wings scurried over and pulled her to her feet, peering behind her in confusion. There were glimmering shapes barely visible in mid-air, as faint as ice crystals in water. She poked the nearest carefully.  
  
“Ow!”  
  
Paarthurnax hummed. “It is the Tiid-Ahraan, the Time-Wound. Here, tiid krent, here Alduin was thrust outside of time where he could harm mortals no longer.”  
  
“There _is_ a Shout which can do that?” Dreams-Of-Wings asked.  
  
“A rotmulaag crippled him, rok nau gol, grounded him,” he explained. “But it was only by means of a Kel, an Elder Scroll that he was cast out.”  
  
Caranya's eyes widened, and Dreams-Of-Wings rubbed a hand over her muzzle.   
  
“Oh, wonderful.”  
  
The Arch-Mage ignored her, bouncing around the Time-Wound and waving her hands in jittery excitement.  
  
“But that makes so much sense! He'd have to be pinned, of course, it wouldn't be that quick, but–”  
  
“I do not know the rotmulaag they used,” Paarthurnax interrupted. “It is a vonmindoraan. Hmm, _incomprehensible_ to the dov.”  
  
The bouncing paused briefly. “And there's no record with the Blades or the Greybeards, and no reason for it to be used after the Time Wound... was created... by a Scroll.” Caranya's grin widened slowly. “With the right Scroll... an anchor...”  
  
Dreams-Of-Wings threw a glare at Paarthurnax. “All your fault,” she muttered under her breath. “Cary, no.”  
  
Caranya spun to look at them, cackling like a hagraven. “Cary, _yes_!”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still feel like this one needs tweaking. Unfortunately, it's not only the last day of June but also the end of the financial year. Give it a week and I'll be dreaming in numbers. On the plus side, the next chapter is almost done (if short) and then it bounces back to Little Secrets, so I'll have a buffer. See you in July.


	9. The Empress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abundance and creation.

“Everybody, out!” Caranya marched into the Arcanaeum like the incarnation of Julianos, jolting the scholars and sending apprentices scattering before her. The other Dragonborn trailed in behind, Lurog bringing up the rear, and Hjalti wondered idly if this was what it felt like to be a duckling.

“Hurry up now!” Caranya snapped at a laggard. “No, you can't take that with you, it can wait 'til I'm done! Urag!” 

The Librarian leaned over his desk and glared at the Arch-Mage. “I hope you're not trying to kick me out of _my_ library,” he said ominously. 

Caranya blinked and shook her head quickly. “Don't be ridiculous, Urag, how would I ever find anything?” She turned to the others, frowning thoughtfully at Alesan's wide-eyed expression. “Music Theory and Instrumental Thaumatics is one of the locked cabinets on the east wall, dear. Supervised access only, understand?”

Urag snorted. “I'll find something safe to keep him occupied, but you still haven't explained what's up.”

Rather than answer immediately, Caranya looked at Lurog and raised her eyebrows.

“Everybody out and the door's locked,” he replied and handed over a long, wrought-iron key, the black surface shimmering with multiple layers of enchantments. Caranya hooked it back on the ring at her waist, and led them all over to the other end of the room. She propped her hip on Urag's desk and tapped her thumb against her lips, thinking.

“I need everything we have on the Elder Scrolls,” she said finally, and made an odd spreading motion with one hand. “No arguments.”

“Hope you know what you're doing, girl,” Urag grumbled. He pushed past Falanu to tap at the edge of the nearest cabinet, drawing his own bundle of keys down the gap between that one and the next instead of attempting to unlock the door. The cabinets groaned and slid apart, just enough for him to reach through. The first thing he pulled out was a tangle of crystalline wires and metallic beads that he handed to Falanu to pass on to Caranya.

The Arch-Mage looked the contraption over and flicked a little orb of red-laced ebony, sending it flying along a greenish wire. The air shimmered around it, froze, and exploded with a soft whump-whump, making Hjalti's ears ache like a mountaintop. She blew her nose to make them pop, and glanced over her shoulder at the bubble of light swirling behind her.

“Do I want to know what that is?” Hjalti asked.

“Privacy,” Caranya said. “What we have is well-known in the right circles, but without confirmation they can't risk doing anything about it.”

“Which one?” Urag broke in. “I'm not keeping this open all day.”

“All of them, please.”

“Cary–”

“ **Now, Urag**.”

Urag heaved a sigh, pointedly ignoring the way the windows rattled, and drew out first one long gleaming case, and then another, and a third, laying them side by side across his desk. On closer inspection they appeared to be scroll cases, each one perhaps three feet long and distinguished only by the bright stones set into the brass handles.

“You have an Elder Scroll,” Falanu said blankly, the corner of her mouth twitching. Hjalti snickered, sharing an amused look with Alesan. It was very rare to take the bard by surprise. Lurog tilted his head, considering the scrolls thoughtfully.

“She has three Elder Scrolls,” he pointed out. “Which one do we use?”

“Good question,” Caranya said with a thin smile. “I have no idea.”

Hjalti peered at the cases warily, tucking her hands behind her back. 

“You can touch them,” Caranya murmured. “They're perfectly safe.”

The Librarian snorted and turned away, leading Alesan out of the privacy-bubble to a bookshelf nearby. Hjalti pulled her attention back to the Scrolls, reaching out warily to lay a finger on a ruby-studded handle right in front of her. It simmered to the touch, like a roiling pot, the gemstones reshaping themselves each time she looked away. She grimaced, trying to get the sensation of fresh blood off her tongue.

“Does it really make a difference which one?” Falanu rubbed her temple, glaring at nothing in particular.

“If we can count them, they're unique. Do you want to take the chance?”

“Divination might work.”

“Mysticism! How old are you? We redistributed–”

“Clairvoyance is–”

“A self-imposed illusion based on–”

Hjalti turned away from the argument, testing the Scroll on the left. The stones drifted along the spectrum between ice-blue and midnight, and the cursed thing bit her when she touched it. She muffled a yelp and tried again, bracing herself against the hot-cold-burning handle. Breathing felt like being out in a hailstorm, but it smelt more like Falanu's hair after that trip to Vvardenfell.

“If we align a clairvoyance-enchantment to–”

“Setting aside the paradoxical resonance of the Scrolls generally, a triple–”

“Then we ask Dreamer for–”

The right-hand Scroll burned too, warm and fierce as sun on the snow. Hjalti's skin felt tight with sunburn and the gems looked more like heated metal. She stepped back, swaying, and clung to the edge of the desk for support. Lurog appeared beside her and slipped a hand under her elbow.

“You alright?”

She nodded, licking dry lips, and pulled the left-hand Scroll closer. It seemed less aggressive this time, or less like it wanted to choke her with ice and cinders anyway. 

“This one,” she said firmly.

“Removing all three from–”

Hjalti scowled.

“This one!”

The bickering stopped. Hjalti lifted her chin and looked the Arch-Mage in the eye.

“We use this one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Caranya's main research focus is the Elder Scrolls. _Of course_ she has as many as she can lay hands on.  
>  2) Have you ever been about to post something, then realised that half-finished chapter you discarded two months ago was actually needed and it goes right there? Yeah.


	10. The Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willing surrender to a experience or situation.

“Is everyone ready?”

“Sky's clear so far,” Lurog said over his shoulder, and shifted his grip on his shield. He'd made it clear that he trusted Paarthurnax on Caranya's say-so, but no one knew how much attention messing with the Time Wound would draw from the other, less helpful dragons, or even Alduin himself. Since it meant she had a stubborn Orsimer guarding her back, Caranya didn't bother to argue.

“Ready and waiting!” Hjalti was grinning next to Dreams-Of-Wings. The Master Wizard rolled her eyes and pulled a double handful of magicka out of the air to roil about her fingers. _Or is it Hahnuviing now? What_ was _that about?_

“You already know my opinion here,” she pointed out abruptly, breaking Caranya's train of thought. “Act, if you have not thought better of it.”

_And she wishes I would. Please keep your suspicions to yourself, Dreamer, just 'til this is over._

Falanu said nothing but waved a arrow, perched on the top of the Word Wall like a crow. Tucked in behind it, her fosterling had his arms wrapped tightly around the Boof. Alesan had talked his way into being allowed to witness, on the understanding that Paarthurnax would remove him immediately if things went wrong. The puppy, on the other hand, had just turned up at the top of the mountain.

_Lurog named that dog far too well._

Paarthurnax himself stood to one side, eyeing Caranya steadily.

“As you will, dovahkiin.”

_Right then. No more stalling._

She nodded, took a deep breath and one last look around the sunlit plateau, and stepped forward until the Time-Wound burned under her skin, as hot as fever. The metal case of the Elder Scroll was cool in comparison, smooth and familiar, and she rubbed her thumb over a bright gem for luck before shifting her hand to the case latch. Parchment made from no mortal beast slid out between her hands, black ink shading to silver under her gaze, familiar lines writhing and reshaping as they pulled away from the rune-etched substrate. She let the Scroll fall away and the constellations remained in the air before her, silken threads twisting into the warped space of the Wound, dragging it open until time gapes like a mouth and swallows her down.

It needs no control, no force of will to perceive what was. The Wound Is, and Is once more, and she Is within it. Nord warriors face down Alduin's servants under a bleeding, burning sky, the vision distorted behind the silver lacework of the Scroll creeping in. The air stinks of death, bites like scattered embers, quivers with the thunder of dragons at war. By the time Alduin himself appears, she sees nothing more than a cobwebbed shadow, but the important thing, the Nord's words, their Words, are clear and unmistakable.

**Joor Zar Frul!**

The Dragonrend aches like starfire, searing her bones, constricting her heart. Her scream echoes Alduin, echoes the Nords—she can do that much—and time merges, the edges of the Wound healing across three eras.

An explosion of matter threw her back, out of the closing mouth of the Time-Wound, up against something that swayed and steadied. Caranya closed her eyes against the lingering glare of the Elder Scroll, and let herself be lowered gently to the ground.

“Stay down,” Lurog muttered in her ear, and the heavy weight of his cloak fell over her back. The snow was pleasant against her burning skin, damp against her knees, even as battle roared overhead. She breathed slowly, trying to drag that infinite awareness back into the cage of mortal perception.

_Damn Dreamer for being right._

“Can you move?” A light tapping at her shoulder, clammy softness nudging her cheek. “Lady, you need to move or we're gonna get stepped on.”

Alesan tucked himself under her arm and hauled, the Boof propping them both up on the other side. They didn't stumble far, a few steps, a few more, before something swept in between them and the fighting, dampening the noise. Alesan eased her down again, next to a warm, hard mass that vibrated as Paarthurnax spoke.

“Rest, little mage. You have done enough. You–”

“ **Joor Zar Frul!** ”

The Thu'um struck the world like a hammer and they all flinched in unison, Caranya's head throbbing as the Time-Wound broke open again for a moment. In the abrupt silence that followed, her grating breath felt like sandpaper.

“As I was saying,” Paarthurnax rumbled as quietly as he could. “Your kin have the rotmulaag you sought and Alduin has come, and left again for now. Time for you to rest while others act.”

_That... does not sound unwise._

Arguing would mean having to concentrate, maybe even getting up. Instead, Caranya twisted just enough to bury her face in Alesan's shirt, opened her hand to rest on the Boof's ribs, and let herself drift, anchored between cloth and scales and fur. The last thing she heard as darkness washed in was Falanu's triumphant rasp.

“ _That's_ how he got to Helgen!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t = FinYear(End) = ∞ files ∴ Boo!  
> t > FinYear(End) = 0 files ∴ Yay!
> 
> Words’re hard. Where’d m’plunnies go.


	11. Temperance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The right thing at the right time in the right place.

“You want to trap a dragon. In my palace.”

“Yup.”

Balgruuf flicked his gaze between Lurog and Hjalti, probably looking for the joke.

“Why here?”

“Only place it's been done before,” Lurog pointed out. “Far as I know, anyway.”

“I have the Imperials and the Stormcloaks eager to squabble over the bones of Whiterun, and you want to call a dragon down on _my city_?”

Hjalti shifted her weight beside him, and Lurog dug an elbow into her ribs. _Not now, kid._

“And if there was no war going on?” he asked politely. The Jarl stared at him for a moment, and then slumped back in his chair, his eyes narrow.

“Then I would _consider_ it.”

* * *

“We are not supposed to act,” Arngeir growled. “The Dragonborn may do as they please, but we follow the Way of the Voice, and we do _not_ get involved in politics!”

“We are not asking you to act,” Hahnuviing sighed. “You are openly neutral, as few in Skyrim may be, because you have the power to enforce it. More, you are trusted to maintain that neutrality.”

“But bringing them here?”

“Would you suggest a hold aligned to one side of the other? Or Whiterun, where the Jarl has spent years keeping both sides _out_? Perhaps the Orc strongholds, dependent as they are on the Nords' indifference to their presence?”

Arngeir rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “If High Hrothgar is the only truly neutral space in Skyrim, then I suppose we have no choice.”

Hahnuviing patted his arm. “Space is all we need,” she said cheerfully, and paused to think. “And the occasional disappointed look when they act up.”

* * *

“If General Tullius is not there...”

“He will be.”

Hjalti grinned at her Jarl cheerfully. He had a very good glare, but she'd seen it too often to take it personally.

“This is serious, girl. I will not be made to look weak by negotiating with some half-trained captain.”

“You won't be.”

“Hjalti.”

“You know the Bard's College is in Solitude, right?” She barely waited for his bemused nod before rushing on. “And the bards have really good reason to be really pissed off with the Empire, remember?”

Ulfric Stormcloak stopped pacing and stared at his Thane.

Her grin widened. “He bails on this, and his name is Mud.”

* * *

 “Ah, General!”

The General looked up from his map. His frown shifted from _irritated contemplation_ to _irritated concern_ and Viarmo stifled a grin.

“Headmaster Viarmo? Is there a problem?”

“Not as such, General,” Viarmo said cheerfully. “Just confirming what time you leave tomorrow. We've arranged for a College representative to accompany you to High Hrothgar, don't want to disrupt your travel plans.”

“High Hrothgar?” Tullius looked suitably confused, but Legate Rikke had clearly been listening to rumours. _Clever girl, but you need to work on that poker face._

“For the truce talks? With Ulfric? The High Queen told me you were organising everything.”

“Elisif told you that? Why...?” Suspicion finally made an appearance, thankfully Rikke was a little quicker.

“You mentioned someone from the College?”

Viarmo smiled charmingly. “Yes, one of our travelling masters. A Dunmeri woman by the name of Falanu Samandas, I think the General has met her before.” He waited a beat and added a touch of malice to his smile, keeping his voice pleasantly nonchalant. “At Helgen.”

It seemed even the General could take a hint, eventually. Viarmo decided that his expression would now be best described as _trapped_.

* * *

Elenwen broke the magnus-eye seal carefully, brushing away crumbs of glittering blue wax. Much of the text was concerned with the appropriate salutations and honorifics, but once deciphered the message was almost humanly blunt. Elenwen read it again, smirked, and tapped the parchment on her desk in lieu of giggling.

“Good news, Emissary?” her secretary asked warily, holding an ink-laden quill away from his correspondence book.

“More an honest warning,” she decided. “It appears that my third cousin once removed has caught wind of truce negotiations taking place in High Hrothgar and, since Ulfric Stormcloak will be present, she has decided in her infinite wisdom to recommend that I do not attend.”

“Are the roads likely to be dangerous?” He put the quill back in the inkwell and twisted to eye the artistically worn sheets of paper they kept for... particular uses.

Elenwen hummed thoughtfully and shook her head. “I think it's time for a reunion with my dear cousin in Winterhold,” she said. “And that mountain is not that far out of the way at all, really. I hear the view from the monastery is lovely this time of year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. I ain't dead? In my (feeble) defence, the last few months have involved: annoying work stuff, Christmas presents, travelling, and people (including kids). As in, more than normal. By an full order of magnitude. And nasty-hot-by-my-standards weather. I love my relations, really, but I love them best in small doses.
> 
> Anyway, headcanon: this whole dragon-mess kicked off when Imperial soldiers tried to execute someone on the grounds of "wrong place wrong time, they're prisoners now anyway so might as well". Unfortunately, these prisoners are not wandering beggars that no one would miss. These prisoners have _connections_. There are _consequences_.


	12. The Chariot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The triumph of will in difficult circumstances

“How in the world did you pull this off?” Balgruuf asked, staring at the sheet of parchment festooned with blobs of coloured wax. “That's the Thalmor seal, how'd you get the _Emissary_ to go along with all this?”

The Arch-Mage smiled at him cheerfully from the other side of the table, her cloudy eyes not quite meeting his.

“Oh, that was easy,” she said. “Self-preservation has always been very important to Elenwen.”

Irileth looked around sharply, leaving off her furious pacing. They were separated from the Porch by a timber wall, the length of his office, a good three feet of granite, _and_ the length of the Main Hall, but enough noise leaked through into the Hall itself—the rumble of draconic voices, the grating of claws against stone—to scrape on anyone's nerves, let along the woman responsible for his security. Young Alesan did his best but his flute just wasn't loud enough, and Irileth hated Indoril lullabies anyway.

“Then why's that guar-get still in Skyrim?”

His housecarl bristled as Caranya's smile turned cruel. “I'm afraid she never saw you as much of a threat,” she replied. “I, on the other hand, am her cousin. Third degree once removed, to be precise. So, family.”

Balgruuf considered the implications for a moment, and pushed the thought away firmly. _Never thought I'd feel pity for a Thalmor_.

“What about the others?”

Caranya tilted her head at a particularly loud clatter-and-thump, and shrugged. “Hjalti squelched her kin as needed, thankfully, and General Tullius finally realised how far up the creek he is. Lucky for him, his Legate was willing to help him paddle,” she said, ticking off her fingers. “The Blades' feud with the Greybeards is worse than we knew—please don't ask—and Elisif does a very good impression of a jellyfish.”

Alesan's next note went flat as he sniggered into his flute, and Balgruuf slid his hand over his mouth.

“Really, now...”

“Really. Spineless and venomous.”

“She hasn't enough power to be venomous,” Irileth muttered sourly. The sound of footsteps broke in before she could continue and Lurog appeared on the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

“Haven't interrupted anything, have I?” he called as he strode down the hall. The Arch-Mage's young hound wriggled out from under her bench and bounded up to meet him, whining plaintively and scrabbling at Lurog's shins until the Orc gave up and scooped the puppy up onto his hip.

“Just discussing the High Queen, dear,” Caranya told him.

“Marry her off to Ulfric.”

“She'd kill him within the week.”

“Marry her off to Galmar.”

“Then _he'd_ kill _her_.”

The Harbinger curled his free arm around his wife's shoulder and drew her to her feet.

“Marry her off to Hjalti, then,” he sighed. “Pref'rably before Tullius gets ideas.”

“I thought you liked that girl,” Balgruuf asked mildly as he got up as well. “And what happened to the dragon?”

“Yes, because _she_ keeps me in the loop, and we're negotiating. Interested?” Lurog threw over his shoulder as he directed Caranya out of the room. The Arch-Mage muttered sourly in return, and their banter continued too quietly to be understood as they left the Hall.

Balgruuf collected Irileth with a look and followed the couple up the stairs. He couldn't stop her from pushing in front before they entered the Porch, but the advantage of having a shorter housecarl was that he still had a clear view, once Lurog moved aside. The arrangement suddenly appeared to be much less ideal as the dragon stared directly at him, straight over Irileth's head, holding his gaze for a long moment before it huffed and looked away, turning back to where the Argonian scholar was standing just out of reach.

At first, the red mass of the thing seemed to stretch from one wall to the other, towering overhead, but a second, calmer look confirmed that there was still reasonable space on either side. Neatly folded, the white-skinned wings were a few feet narrower than the broad timber yoke that pinned its neck, clamped in place on either side and weighed down by two heavy iron chains, each link as wide as a man's head. A choke-bar, cunningly formed, prevented the dragon from pulling itself out from under the yoke.

“His name's Odahviing,” a cheerful voice said in his ear. Balgruuf flinched, and stared balefully at the young Stormcloak. Hjalti looked sunburnt, a swathe of bright pink stretching across her right cheek up to her ear, and her blonde hair on that side was mottled with crispy brown. Half her mantle had been burned away and the leather underneath was charred, but she was grinning like a child at Harvest's End.

“Hahnuviing says that it means 'Hunts-On-Wings-Of-Snow',” she went on. “The Blades said something different, but I like her version better.”

Irileth gave the dragon a wary look. “I suppose it fits its colouring.”

“Well, not just that.”

“No?”

Hjalti's grin slipped for a moment. “No. Um, more like the idea of an owl, we think. Don't know how something that big could be so quiet, but he would've got me if Hahnu hadn't seen him coming.”

Her gaze slide past Balgruuf and she blanched. “Ask Lu, gotta sort this,” Hjalti babbled and darted off after Farengar, chasing the mage as he ducked around the dragon's wing.

“Lurog? Is there a problem with my court wizard?” Balgruuf asked as he edged closer to the dragon's head. Lurog exchanged an exasperated look with the Argonian and shrugged.

Dreams-Of-Wings snorted. “His insistence on obtaining samples is interfering with our discussion,” she grumbled, craning her neck to watch as Hjalti frogmarched Farengar out of the room. “It is not as if he gives aid in the capture.”

The dragon lowered its head, staring at the Argonian, and growled something incomprehensible. Dreams-Of-Wings rolled her eyes, emanating exasperation.

“Nordic, if you please,” she told it sharply. “For obvious reasons the Jarl has no Dovahzul, and we stand within his hall.”

“Such is the mulaag... hm, strength of the Dovahkinne,” the dragon growled in old-fashioned Nordic. Its voice was surprisingly light for a creature that could take his head off in one bite, and the long fangs didn't seem to interfere with speech at all. “Ful hi sahlo, siigonis? Could you not have bound me so, without the aid of a joor, a mortal?”

“My name is Hahnuviing, and you shall use it,” Dreams-Of-Wings snarled. “Or I shall call you dovah and nameless, and **so you shall be**.”

Her voice echoed, bouncing back and forward off the stonework until it felt as if the world was breaking apart. Irileth dragged Balgruuf back, pushing him behind the dubious shelter of the Stormcloak's back, and Lurog shifted into formation beside her, shoving the whining hound into Balgruuf's arms. Even the dragon reacted, its claws leaving white scrapes on the floor as it fought the yoke attempting to get away. Only the Arch-Mage seemed unaffected, her face calm as she stepped forward to lay a hand on the Argonian's shoulder.

“ **Oblaan** ,” she murmured, and the air stilled. “Please don't curse Odahviing for being an obstructive twit, Hahnuviing. Even if he does deserve it.”

“Hi piraak suleyk for lahvraan. Perhaps you do have the power to face Alduin,” Odahviing said reluctantly. “Viik rok himaar? Could you defeat him alone?”

“You think we'd be fool enough to try?” Lurog asked.

“Skuldafn was carved from the strunmahhe by mortal hands to the zind, the glory of the dov, carried there by our will, never to leave it in life or death.” The monster grinned. “The sky alone gives passage. Hi nis siiv daar golt, that fane is beyond the reach of any wingless joor.”

The dragon lowered its head as much as it could, and made a good attempt at looking innocent. “Without my aid, you will never see the great halls of Skuldafn, or the beauty of Keizaal as the dov see it. Orin brit ro, I can aid no one as your prisoner.”

“Oh, that is clever,” Balgruuf muttered to himself. Of the Dragonborn only the Arch-Mage looked taken-aback, and he suspected that they'd gone 'round the mulberry bush a few times before Lurog came to fetch him. _Politics it is then. Let's get this back on track before I have to start feeding the thing_.

Balgruuf took a deep breath and pushed between Hjalti and Irileth, the hound still in his arms, his housecarl keeping pace as he stopped a half-step behind the Argonian. _Akatosh, protect us from your children_.

“Two questions for you, dragon,” he said firmly. “Firstly, how do I ensure the safety of my people once you are free?”

The monster stared as if a cave rat had stood up on its hind legs and claimed kinship, and curled its lip. “Sinon tinvaak, what reason will you give me to let this insult pass, joor.”

There was movement in the corner of his eye, and Balgruuf lifted a hand to keep anyone from interfering. The puppy wriggled, trying to get free, and he quickly gripped its collar again. Lurog would kill him if he let the Arch-Mage's dog get eaten.

“Alduin will return to Skyrim soon enough,” he said quietly. “And the Dragonborn will drive him off again as they have before. You could be useful, if you chose. But if you choose otherwise, if you bring fire and death to those under my shield and make me wish you had been slaughtered under the yoke like an old ox, well.”

Balgruuf smiled, keeping his fingers loose and easy as he rubbed the dog's ears, and looked Odahviing in the eye. “This is not the Merithic Era, dragon. Traps like this are not hard to build. Deadfalls, nets, catapults. We know your graves, dragon, we know your walls. We know how to find you. We know how to _cage_ you.”

The dragon held his gaze for a moment longer, then looked away. “And your second question?”

“How many can you carry at once?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I tried to write the truce talks, but it kept turning into the Dovahkinne tromping everyone else into obedient mudpuddles. Very cathartic for me, very dull for any readers.  
> * Odahviing _is_ an obstructive twit, that's why the chapter was late. On a completely unrelated note (hah!), the translator at Thuum.org is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.  
>  * If you're wondering about Falanu, she's on the trap lever. All the guards were kept firmly out of harms way.
> 
> Headcanon: The Orc strongholds and Thalmor-controlled Summerset are very similar, in that 'Might makes Right' is a major social policy. The main differences are:  
> a) The Orcs are focused mainly on physical/combative strength, while the Altmer also look at magic, knowledge, influence, pedigree, politics, etc.  
> b) The Orcs, having a high number of berserkers, know that power is useless without control. The Altmer in general, and the Thalmor in particular, didn't quite get that memo. And since family members were there when you were young-and-stupid... yes, I think that Lurog had a better childhood than Caranya.

**Author's Note:**

> Current posting schedule is one chapter a ~~week~~ month, but will be bouncing between Greater Mysteries and Little Secrets as the timeline runs.


End file.
